“We should drink less, we should eat more, we should get outside. We should drink less, we should eat more, we should be living better lives”-Psapp
I had a decent day in the land of pencils and hormones. The damn Yankee children said they were not cognizant of the skills, they complained and I explained. How do you do that, when they should already know. A spoft spot, their brains rot, I hate the wail, despite my efforts they all fail. Fucking brats learn to factor, or at least factor in to shutting the hell up.
All things considered it wasn’t all cunts and fuckwads, it is redeeming to find the few kids that you could see having a beer with in like 10 years. These are the youngings I can laugh with and talk shit to. I know why I love my dad. He hooks me up with an easy sub day, where I spend my time either helping kids factor or reading the best blog ever during one of the many breaks in the day, though I nearly got in trouble when I was scrolling by and there was a picture of someone on the toilet, NSFW is needed on your blog JJ, you are perverting young minds. My father made the day all the better when relieves me off the mound for the final hour. Fathers used to be considered good by virtue of the backyard toss, now it is how they can defraud his employers for one hour of free pay for his son to buy gas.
70 more dollars will find their way into my pocket, though I spent a good ten percent of that on my meal post mordem. This was a good choice by me, while it wasn’t the most filling, it filled my tastebuds with wonder, did they die and go to heaven? Maybe I am overdoing it, but that grilled chicken sammy on a parmasean bagel was so damned delicious, I had to make sure I was not sans one soul in some unwilling deal with the devil.
The back got cracked by a trained professional and I had a laugh at the fact I was walking vertically large.
The weathermen would take my fun away, as they broke into my place and raped me. My cries went unheard and my innocence lost to the fact that I am unable to play hockey since nearly a week before. I will testify against the weather channel and their schizophrenic cavelcade of “forecasters.” Just give me a doll to illustrate to a jury and I will give you tears.
Thusly I settled into a quiet evening in which I would forget the pain in my ass, by focusing on the soon to be pain in my ass, Sidney Crosby (who coincidentally also knows about crying and being bent over) So I watched game six of last years romp in the a city built on steel, but without the resolve to back it. This made me go through the gammet of emotions, I laughed, I cried, I learned. I know that it isn’t going to be easy to win especially with a script in place curteous of Gary Betman entitled The Golden One, starring Sid the Kid. However, I remembered that Osgood and company are way classier, and the movies always have them winning in the end. Four wins and I will be happy until next October, and if Sidney wins I am going to get the weather channel on his ass. Jim Cantore can start storm on him, we will call it Hurricane Trashstash.
I sit here, and wonder….
How the hell did he change his clothes so fast?
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